


S is for Loser

by mrsfizzle



Category: DCU, Smallville, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bullying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Family Drama, Family Issues, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26228008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsfizzle/pseuds/mrsfizzle
Summary: The day after Clark is crucified as the scarecrow, he watches his father worship his torturer and revile his savior. This is my take on why Clark never told Jonathan the truth about what happened in that cornfield, and what Jonathan's thoughts might have been if he had known the whole story. Rated for some violence and brief swearing.
Relationships: Clark Kent & Jonathan Kent, Clark Kent & Lex Luthor
Comments: 125
Kudos: 66





	1. October 18, 2002

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jakrar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jakrar/gifts).



> This is a pre-written 10-scene story. I debated between posting it as a one-shot, or in pieces. It's ~7k words total, which (to my taste) is pretty long as a one-shot, but the scenes are pretty short. So I decided to compromise. I will post one scene every day for ten days. If you'd prefer to read this as one piece, you won't have long to wait.
> 
> To Jakrar: this may not have been what you had in mind when you said you'd like to read a story where Clark's parents find out he was the scarecrow—it's closer to a head canon incorporating some of your theories than a true AU, and the discovery itself is only a small part—but I hope you and others enjoy it anyway. Sharing ideas and theories with you has been and continues to be a joy :)
> 
> Last note: This is NOT chronological, but the pieces do add up to a larger whole. The chapters are labeled by dates. The years help to place the events, but I've tried to make the situations clear from context, and the dates themselves are not particularly significant.

A year after Clark and Lex became friends, Clark sat in the passenger seat of Lex's car on a Friday afternoon in mid-fall, parked just far enough away from the cornfield that they wouldn't be noticed when the half-drunk teenagers arrived with their truck. They'd been planning today for almost the entire time they had known each other.

"Sure we got everything?" Lex asked.

Clark took a quick scan of the car. Two thermoses of hot chocolate from the mansion kitchens sat in the cup holders between them, and a bottle of soapy water with a rough sponge sat on the floor at his feet. Flannel blankets and extra clothes piled in the backseat beside a first aid kit and a small cooler with ice packs.

"Yeah," Clark said. "I think we got it."

They alternated between silence and idle chatting, but they both kept their eyes on the cornfield. They'd been sitting for less than an hour when it happened.

A beat-up red pickup truck blaring hard rock music sped around the corner. It slowed to a stop, and a half dozen guys in letter jackets jumped out of the truck bed, dragging a smaller kid toward the corn stalks. Clark and Lex were too far away to see the victim's face, but Clark thought he saw blood. The boys joked and laughed and threw beer cans into the field, and a couple of the guys doubled back to the truck to pick up the stake and the rope.

"I could deal with those guys," Lex muttered under his breath.

It was silent for a moment.

"Could make it look like an accident."

"Don't do this to yourself," Clark said softly.

"Don't do what?"

Clark took his eyes off the truck for a moment to glance over at his best friend, who wore a look Clark usually only saw when he was talking about Lionel. "If you hurt those guys, you're no better than they are."

"Bullshit."

Clark knew Lex was right. He also knew Lex. "We're not here for them."

Lex let out his breath. "I know."

The guys stumbled out of the field, laughing and exchanging high fives, and they jumped back into the pickup truck and drove away.

Clark wanted to run after them. He could do it. He could make an example of them, and maybe save some future kids, but that wasn't his job or his place. It was more likely to make things worse.

"They're gone." Lex unlocked his car door.

"Give it a minute," Clark said.

"That kid is suffering out there."

"We have to make sure the guys don't come back."

The tension was heavy, but Clark counted a full minute. Those sixty seconds felt as long as the year that had passed since Clark had been the scarecrow himself. And it had been a very, very long year.

But the minute finally passed. "Okay." Clark unlocked his car door. "You know what to do."

"Yeah." Lex smiled wryly. "This isn't my first time doing this, you know."

Clark couldn't bring himself to smile, but he nodded. "I know."


	2. October 18, 1999

The Monday after the Homecoming game in their seventh grade year, Pete and Clark walked home from school together after school. It would be two years before they were in high school, but they were still buzzing with the excitement from the game.

"We have _got_ to try out for football in high school!" Pete was almost skipping through the leaves.

Clark didn't say anything. His dad had never really let him play sports, other than shooting hoops in his driveway, and he'd had to follow strict rules even for that.

"You don't want to play?" Pete asked.

"No, I do." Clark did his best to keep himself positive. He was getting stronger with each year that passed, but he was also getting better at controlling himself. High school was still two years away. Maybe his dad would let him.

"You _have_ to try out. If you don't . . . well, did you hear about Theo Kramer?" Pete's voice had gone suddenly quiet.

"I've heard of him." Theo was two years older than them, a freshman at Smallville High. He had a brother who was Clark's age, but Clark wasn't really supposed to hang out with the Kramers. Clark's parents had never strictly forbidden him from being friends with them, but his dad went quiet and looked uncomfortable whenever they were mentioned. The Kramers were weird and a little awkward, but they seemed nice enough to Clark. "Did something happen to him?"

"Yeah." Pete shoved his hands in his pockets. "He was the scarecrow this year."

"Scarecrow?"

"Every year before the homecoming game, the football team picks a freshman, strips him to his underwear, and ties him to a post out in the middle of Reilly field. They paint an S on his chest, for scarecrow. And they leave him strung up until someone finds him. Sometimes he ends up out there all night."

A chill passed over Clark's limbs. "Is Theo okay?"

"He's out of the hospital."

They walked in silence for a little while. Theo was nice, but he was scrawny and nerdy, and Clark was pretty sure no one in his family was really involved in anything—no sports or arts or clubs. Their parents worked the kind of boring dead-end office jobs Clark's dad warned him about whenever Clark complained about having to do so many farm chores.

"We gotta try out for football when we're freshmen," Pete said. "They won't go after one of their own."

Clark nodded. Somehow, he'd find a way to convince his dad to let him play. He was _not_ going to be like Theo when he got to high school.

If he ended up being the scarecrow, even his dad wouldn't be able to deny that he was a loser.


	3. October 15, 2001

A couple of months into Clark's freshman year of high school, a few days before the homecoming game, Jonathan finished up the morning chores and returned to the house through the side door. Clark hadn't joined him—the kid had slept in again. He'd been doing that more since he'd hit his teen years. Jonathan would have been more upset about it if it weren't such a relief every time his alien son behaved like a normal teenage boy.

Still, he couldn't resist teasing. "Well, good afternoon, sleepyhead."

Martha held out a mug of coffee to Jonathan. "Oh, and don't forget," she said, "I have class tonight, so you two are on your own. And don't order pizza. There's plenty of food in the fridge."

Jonathan took a swig out of the milk bottle and looked down at Clark, who held a half sheet of paper. "Hey, what you got there, son?"

Clark stood and took a deep breath. "Permission slip. It's for the football team. A couple of spots opened up, they're having tryouts this afternoon."

Jonathan scratched the back of his head, taking the paper. They'd already talked about this.

"Come on, Dad. You played football in high school."

"That was different, son."

"Why?"

He gave Clark a look. "You know why."

"I figured I'll run at half speed and I won't hit anybody."

Jonathan was pretty sure half speed for Clark was still faster than sound. "A lot of things can happen in the heat of the game, son." He sipped at his coffee.

"Most of the guys hardly even play. Chances are I'll ride the bench half the season." He paused. "Dad, I can be careful."

Jonathan said firmly, "I know that you can be careful, but what if there's an accident?"

Clark looked down sadly. Jonathan knew Clark was just trying to make him feel guilty with that expression, but it was working. He could feel Martha's presence behind him, and he knew she would support whatever decision he made, but she'd also give him an earful later if she felt like he was unsympathetic to their son.

"Look, um . . ." He put a hand on Clark's shoulder. "Clark, I know this has gotta be really hard for you. But you gotta just hang in there, like we promised?" He gave his shoulder a gentle clap and let go.

"I'm sick of hanging in there." Clark was still looking down. "All I wanna do is go through high school without being a total loser." He looked up at Jonathan, gave a slight grimace, and left.

Jonathan turned to Martha after Clark was gone. She pulled him into her arms, lightly kissing his cheek. "You did the right thing," she whispered into his ear.

Jonathan wasn't as sure. "We're not going to be able to shelter him forever. Every day I wonder if I've waited too long to tell him about what's in our storm cellar. At the same time, I feel like we're not giving him enough of a normal life."

"Plenty of normal kids never get to play a sport in high school."

Jonathan knew that that was true. But something about Clark's desperation to be anything other than a loser had hit him hard.

"Honey," Martha said, "there will be shades of gray in every decision we make for him, and in every decision he makes for himself. But football . . . that's pretty black and white. It's dangerous." She lowered her hands to take his. "He's fourteen. He's young enough that he'll get over this. And he's old enough to understand that you're making this decision for his own safety."

That was the part that was bothering Jonathan the most. He worried about Clark's safety and the safety of the other kids on the field. He worried about someone finding out Clark's secret, and he worried about Clark losing what little normalcy he had in his life, which might have been part of why he was waiting so long to show him the spaceship.

But he wondered if there weren't other reasons he didn't want Clark to play football, and maybe those were the reasons why he wanted to yell instead of speak rationally every time Clark brought it up. Reasons that had nothing to do with Clark and everything to do with himself. Reasons that he'd never told Martha.

Then again, Jonathan's own experiences were as much a reason to encourage Clark to join the team as to forbid it. Clark was worried about being seen as a loser, and Jonathan of all people knew that that wasn't an irrational fear, even if Clark was as far from it as Jonathan could possibly imagine.


	4. October 24, 1980

Seventeen-year-old Jonathan Kent squatted in the back of the pickup truck, trying to listen and laugh at what his teammates were saying, trying not to look at the tied up, trembling figure huddled in fetal position at their feet. His buddies had busted out a couple of six packs of beer, but Jonathan didn't dare touch it. If his father caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath, he'd be done for. Not to speak of what would happen if his father found out about what he was already doing.

Funny enough, the rest of the football team understood Jonathan turning down alcohol. Respected it, even. But they'd hear nothing of it when he'd hesitated about coming along for the scarecrow prank.

It was just Sam Kramer, his friends had reminded him. Sam the loser. A weak little nerd. A whiner and a snitch.

Jonathan spared Sam a glance. There were tears in his eyes. Blood trickled from his nose—he must have landed face-first when he hit the truck bed. Or maybe one of the other guys had punched him.

One of the guys nudged Jonathan, and he looked up. "Hey, you hear about the time Kramer tried to ask out that girl in gym, and he wet himself?"

The guys burst into laughter. Jonathan made himself laugh, but his nerves were so far over the edge, he felt like he was going to throw up. Alcohol was supposed to help with nerves—maybe that was what he needed. He wouldn't be seeing his dad until after the homecoming dance, plenty of time for the smell to fade.

"Hey, gimme a beer," Jonathan said finally.

"Yeah, Kent's joinin' the party!" One of the guys tossed him a can, and Jonathan popped the top and drank deeply. It tasted awful, but he supposed taste wasn't really the point.

He tried to convince himself it would be fine. That Sam would be fine. Sam was a freshman. He had all of high school to get over this.

The pickup truck slowed to a halt outside of the field, and the guys whooped. Two of Jonathan's friends grabbed Sam. Two grabbed the stake. One grabbed the rope.

"Kent. Get the spray paint."

Jonathan picked up the can before jumping out of the back of the truck. He felt better about carrying the paint. It wasn't as though it were a real instrument of torture, like the stake or the ropes or their fists.

Jonathan hung back a little, making his way through the corn stalks slowly, so that he would miss most of the action. When he made it to the clearing, his friends had already stripped Sam to his underwear. One of the guys tied a rope around Sam's waist so it pressed against the stake. Two of the guys yanked Sam's arms back, up and over the splintered wooden bar of the cross. Sam cried out, eyes squeezed closed in a deep wince.

Jonathan tore his eyes away from Sam and looked out over the field instead. Hearing it without seeing it was almost worse—his friends' laughter was almost, but not quite, loud enough to drown out Sam's groans.

A rough clap on the back broke Jonathan out of his trance. "Well?" a teammate asked. "What are you waiting for?"

It took Jonathan a moment to realize what he meant. Jonathan was still holding the spray paint. He took a deep breath and approached Sam. The guys had cleared away from the stake; Sam was now alone.

Sam's deep brown eyes caught Jonathan's. They shone with unshed tears, and ever so slightly, Sam shook his head. "Please," he whispered.

"Do it, Kent!" one of his friends cried out.

Jonathan could do this. It wouldn't hurt the kid. Not really.

 _S_ for snitch. _S_ for scarecrow. _S_ for Sam.

Jonathan gritted his teeth, pressed his finger to the nozzle, and traced the letter. Then, and only then, did Sam begin to cry.

The guys laughed again, and they mocked Sam's sobs. Jonathan tossed the spray paint can into the cornfield and laughed along with his friends. If he hadn't laughed, he would have cried, too.

 _S_ for sorry. So, so, so sorry.


	5. October 19, 2001

After being saved from the cornfield and fighting with Jeremy Creek, Clark came home just before eleven. His dad was sitting up in the living room with a book.

"Mom asleep?" Clark whispered

"Yeah." His dad set aside the book. "I didn't see you at the game."

"Ah. I . . . decided not to go."

His dad kept looking at Clark, like he was waiting for him to explain himself, but Clark didn't say anything. His dad would probably assume he was still upset about not being allowed to play. Maybe it was best to let him believe that. "Oh. Okay. How was the dance?"

Clark didn't like to lie to his parents. But if he told his dad that he had skipped the dance as well, his dad would ask where he had been all evening, and then Clark would have to lie.

He knew he should tell his parents what had happened. Concealing such a major event was probably about as bad as lying, and his parents would be pretty upset if they found out later. Clark was pretty sure he wouldn't be in trouble, but they'd be disappointed in him, and that was somehow worse.

His dad was quick with affection and encouraging words. He told Clark he was proud of him all the time, a firm hand on his arm reinforcing the message. That was just who his father was. He was just as kind to Pete, he was sweet with Lana and Chloe, and he was welcoming to all of Clark's friends, and to everyone.

Almost everyone. There were the Luthors. Then, of course, there had been Theo Kramer, who his dad had been cold around, because he wasn't going to amount to much. There had been sadness in Clark's dad's eyes when he found out about Theo's hospitalization, but no surprise at all.

Clark had joined the likes of Theo today. If there was a surefire way to disappoint his father, it would be to tell him that.

"The dance was okay," Clark said.


	6. October 20, 2001

The day after Whitney strung him up, Clark was still reeling from everything that had happened while he helped his parents set up for the farmer's market. Lana and Whitney were at the market. Lana caught Clark's eye, and her brow wrinkled with curiosity.

"Clark, I didn't see you at the dance last night."

She'd promised to save him a dance. As enamored as he still was with her, maybe it was for the best that he'd missed that. Clark couldn't imagine how Whitney would have reacted. "Oh, I was . . ."

Clark was used to making excuses. He did it all the time. But then he saw Whitney staring at him.

"I was a little tied up," he finished.

His dad came up from behind him. "Hey. Congratulations." He shook Whitney's hand. "That was one heck of a game. I haven't seen an offense that good since I played."

"Thank you, Mr. Kent."

Clark couldn't be upset with his dad, not really—he hadn't told his parents anything about what had really happened last night—but it still hurt to watch his father praise his tormentor, and he didn't want to see the rest of the conversation play out. "Let me get the rest of the boxes out of the trunk."

Clark trudged away. Whitney was following him within seconds.

"Kent, you realize last night was just a joke, right?"

_A joke._

Every nerve alive and screaming. Fire and ice and agony in his skin and muscles and veins. The _S_ on his chest a glaring symbol of the humiliation. The weight of his body—it may as well have been the weight of the world—pulling at his twisted arms, hanging heavier and heavier, until he accepted that that was the night he would die. And then he relished the thought of death. Longed for death, if only to end the pain.

That was only the first hour.

Clark kept walking.

"Hey." Whitney grabbed his shoulder, turning Clark to face him. "I need that necklace back."

"I don't have it."

"Look, it's Lana's favorite, so—"

"So then you better go out to that cornfield and find it."

It felt good to walk away.


	7. October 27, 1980

Sam Kramer didn't snitch, but he did go to the hospital, and Smallville was a small town. Word got out.

Coach Walters found out, but he'd already known. The scarecrow prank was a tradition; if he'd wanted to stop it, he would have. Coach told the principal he'd handle the discipline, and he called the team in for a scolding, but something about the tone of his bark made Jonathan wonder if he was proud rather than angry. Like the prank was something they all shared, a rite of passage.

The worse part was that everyone's parents found out what had happened. Jonathan was sure he wasn't the only one who was taken out to the woodshed, but that, too, was an experience they shared, even though they didn't talk about it. For Jonathan's part, he kept uncharacteristically quiet during his punishment, ground out a vehement "I hate you" when his father told him he was forgiven, and didn't shed tears until the burn from the strap began to fade, minutes after his father had left him to stew in the loft. The tears were for the realization that even if his father had whipped him until blood ran, it wouldn't have made a dent in the guilt.

Over the following weeks, most of Jonathan's friends went to apologize to Sam, whether by virtue of their parents' orders or their own shame. According to the guys, Sam took pity on them. He was willing to provide peace of mind in exchange for a moment's humility.

But Jonathan couldn't bring himself to have that conversation with Sam. To confess and apologize would be to assume worthiness of forgiveness, and confidence in his own ability to improve. If Sam forgave him, he'd have no right to refuse to forgive himself. And he could _never_ forgive himself. To never apologize, of course, was far more insidious—it assumed an unwillingness to change, a refusal of responsibility for what he'd done, and a lack of sympathy for what Sam had gone through.

Jonathan kept telling himself he'd get around to it. He'd talk to Sam tomorrow. Tomorrow. Next week.

Meanwhile, he became a shining paragon of morality in every other facet of his life, as if that could make up for his sins against Sam. He helped his parents with as many chores as he could spare the time for; he earned higher grades in his classes than he ever had; he went out of his way to help friends and share kind words with acquaintances; he was generous with what little he had, to his own detriment. He even told his father about the beer he'd had, and submitted to the two-week grounding with no complaint. When he looked in the mirror, he could almost convince himself he didn't hate who he saw.

Jonathan saw Sam around campus most days. At first, seeing Sam made Jonathan feel sorry. Sorry turned to uncomfortable; uncomfortable to unsettled; unsettled to angry. Over time, the anger turned to hatred. Sam was all that stood in the way of Jonathan believing the façade he wore. The longer Jonathan went without talking to Sam, the more he hated him, until he could hardly pass the kid in the hallway without seeing red.

Still, he told himself, tomorrow. Tomorrow. Next week. Then it was Christmas. Then it was spring. Then Jonathan walked the stage at graduation, and he celebrated with his buddies after the ceremony, and he didn't, couldn't, think about Sam Kramer.


	8. October 20, 2001 (part 2)

Jonathan was packing up after the farmer's market when that Luthor kid approached Clark.

He almost went over and said something right away, but he decided against it. He remembered the way his mind worked when he was a freshman in high school. The surest way to fascinate Clark would be to forbid him to speak to Lex at all. The last thing he needed was for them to become friends.

By the way they talked, though, Jonathan could have sworn they were already there.

"Can't knock your taste in women," Lex said.

So Lex had caught Clark staring at Lana. He had no business remarking on that, he should mind his own—

"You want to tell me what happened last night?"

Jonathan busied himself with the crates, but his ears perked up even more. Clark had said he was at the dance. Now, what, he had been with _Lex?_ Jonathan would put a stop to this. He would—

"It was just a stupid prank."

"You were tied to a stake in the middle of a field. Even the Romans saved that for special occasions. You could have died out there."

The blood drained from Jonathan's face.

Clark had been the scarecrow.

All of the times Clark had begged to be allowed to play football and lamented about going through high school as a loser, Jonathan had never imagined that that was what Clark was afraid of. Scarecrow victims had a type, a profile that Clark didn't match in the slightest. They were the so-called losers—weak and scrawny, geeky and introverted, uninvolved and not terribly bright. People not many others would miss. Easy victims.

Smallville might have been a small town, but it wasn't _that_ small. There were always plenty of freshmen who fit the bill. The one chosen was the one who got on one of the football players' nerves. Given the way Clark stared at Lana, it didn't take a genius to put two and two together—Whitney had convinced the team to break away from the usual type.

Powers or no powers, football or no football, Clark was as far from being a loser as Jonathan could imagine.

Jonathan couldn't imagine how the football team had overpowered Clark when getting hit by a car had done nothing to him, but he had more immediate concerns on his mind right now. Clark had lied to him about the dance, and Jonathan had just praised Whitney for the game. In front of Clark. No wonder Clark had taken off in a hurry.

He tried to think of what he would say if Clark confronted him with the information. Jonathan felt angry with Whitney—the kid had harassed his son, after all—but found he couldn't stir any true hatred. It felt too hypocritical. Whitney was just a dumb kid. And Clark—well, no one could _really_ bully Clark.

"I appreciate your help," Clark told Lex. "I just want to forget it ever happened."

A second wave of nausea hit Jonathan. Lex had _saved_ Clark. Jonathan didn't even want to think about what that implied. He didn't want to hear any more of this conversation.

He approached them. "Hey, Clark. What's the hold up, son?"

"Mr. Kent. It's good to see you." Lex held out a hand, offering a handshake. He wore a self-satisfied smirk, like he knew something Jonathan didn't know.

Jonathan's jaw clenched. Lex had hit Clark with his car. Did he know the truth about that? No, Jonathan supposed—a Luthor would have made quick work of that knowledge. But he knew he had _almost_ hit Clark, and he knew he didn't deserve Jonathan's courtesy. Not when he'd almost killed his son.

But that mockingly polite tone. The handshake offered, mere days after Jonathan had rejected it. The pleasant words. Like _Lex_ was the civil one and Jonathan was being unreasonable. _Good to see you_ , he'd said. Lying through his teeth.

And Lex had saved Clark. Saved him when Whitney had almost killed him. Had Lex somehow overheard Jonathan making a fool of himself, praising Clark's torturer? If Jonathan refused Lex's handshake, he was rejecting the person who had saved his son. That would have been fair, except here Lex was, giving him _that look_. Taunting him.

Lex had nearly taken Clark's life the other day and tried to shake Jonathan's hand like nothing had ever happened. Saved it yesterday and now it was a reason to smirk. Clark's life was a joke to Lex. It was all there in his eyes. _I saved your son_ , they said, _and you don't even know. How do you like me now?_

Luthor. Through and through.

Still, Jonathan didn't have much of a choice. His pride wouldn't allow him to be made a fool of again.

He gripped Lex's hand and shook. "Lex," he said, then to Clark, "Come on, we've got to finish up."

Jonathan was vaguely aware that the whole situation was unbearably ironic: he felt more hatred toward Lex in the wake of discovering that he'd saved Clark, than he had felt upon discovering that Lex had nearly killed Clark.

The bitter irony only made him angrier.


	9. December 11, 2001

Two months after he'd been strung up by Whitney and saved by Lex, Clark was getting sick of his father's prejudice.

Clark's dad was nice to all of his friends. Pete had talked Clark into doing some pretty stupid things over the years, and his dad had always been forgiving, after he'd finished scolding them.

But Lex couldn't catch a break. Jonathan grumbled when Lex was too generous and complained when he was too stingy. He made rude comments when Lex came by to visit Clark and snarky remarks when he _didn't_ come by to visit, both behind his back and in front of his face. He was upset with Lex both when he was too clever and when he missed things, when the plant he managed was doing well and when it was doing poorly.

Lex had been nothing but kind to them. He'd given Clark gifts, he'd offered to help with the farm financially, and he'd been a great friend to talk to, a lot like an older brother. He'd saved Clark's life once out in the cornfield, though Clark had never told his parents about it.

Last night, though, Lex had saved Clark's entire field trip group, all of his friends, from a gunman who had taken them hostage at the plant. Clark had gotten his dad to agree that Lex had done a good thing. The next day, he was back to complaining about him.

Clark sat at the dining room table doing his homework that afternoon while his mom worked on dinner, but he couldn't focus on what he was writing. Finally, he put his pencil down and turned to face his Mom, who had her back to him while she worked at the stove. "Why does Dad hate Lex so much?"

His mom froze, then set her spoon down, turning to face him. "Your dad doesn't hate Lex."

"Yes, he does."

"Clark—"

"It doesn't matter what Lex does. Dad talks bad about him _all_ of the time."

His mom sighed. "Clark, your father has had some . . . unpleasant encounters, with Lex's father."

"Lex has had some unpleasant encounters with _my_ father, but he's still nice to me."

"I'm not talking about harsh words. I'm talking about lies and manipulation."

Clark frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, has Pete ever talked to you about what happened with his family's factory?"

"Uh, I know they used to have one, when Pete was really little."

"Lionel Luthor cheated them out of it."

Clark blinked a couple of times. "What does that have to do with Lex?"

"Lionel raised Lex to be a certain way, Clark. You were probably too young to have noticed, but we've been seeing Lex's face in magazines for a long time. His teenage years . . . well, let's just say they were nothing like yours."

"Okay, but I know Lex. He's trying to do better. And Dad won't even give him a chance. He's being completely unreasonable."

The side door swung open, and Clark's dad entered the kitchen. "Who's being unreasonable?"

Clark stood from the table and crossed his arms. "You are."

His father's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone, young man."

Clark's heart pounded. He knew he was skating on thin ice, especially after the house party yesterday, but his anger was making it difficult to think straight. His mom turned away from them, back to the stove.

"If you have a problem with something I've done, we'll talk about it, but I expect you to be rational and respectful."

"Like how you talk to Lex?"

His father's expression darkened. "The Luthors are different."

"Why?"

"Because they have a history of doing whatever they have to do to get what they want, no matter who they have to cheat or destroy."

Clark's jaw stiffened. "That's not Lex, Dad."

"I'm telling you—"

"He's my friend, and you won't even—"

"The Luthors are bad for this town, you don't know—"

"You're always talking about how we're supposed to see the good in people, but when it comes to Lex—"

"I'm trying to protect you, son, I—"

"Lex saved my life. Do you even—"

"He didn't save your life. You wouldn't have died in that field, we would have found you."

It was dead silent for a moment.

Slowly, Clark's mom turned to face him. "What's he talking about?"

Clark looked away, cheeks burning. His dad knew. About Clark being the scarecrow.

"Clark?" his mom asked again.

This was part of why he hadn't wanted to tell his parents. "I was the scarecrow, Mom."

"Scarecrow? What—"

He whispered, "Remember Theo Kramer?"

Her jaw dropped, and she gasped. "Oh, baby!" She rushed forward and threw her arms around Clark.

He hugged her back, but said, "It was two months ago, Mom, I'm fine." He pulled away and turned to his father. "You knew?"

His dad's face turned pale. "You just said Lex saved your life. What were _you_ talking about?"

"Last night at the plant. He saved _all_ of my friends' lives." Adrenaline poured into Clark's veins. "How did you know about . . . the scarecrow thing?"

"I, um . . ." His dad swallowed. "I heard you and Lex talking at the farmer's market."

"The same one where you were going on about Whitney and how amazing he was at football?"

His dad didn't say anything.

Clark felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "You've known _all_ this time?" He shook his head. "But . . . you don't hate Whitney."

"Whitney's a kid," Jonathan said, but his eyes were looking beyond Clark's.

"He crucified me."

Jonathan's eyes flashed. "Do you hate him?"

"No! You're always teaching me to forgive people and not focus on the past. I _love_ that. But when it comes to the Luthors . . . and the Kramers . . ."

"What do the Kramers have to do with this?"

"You don't like them. Whitney's family, though, you're fine with them. But the Luthors? Lex could save my life and it wouldn't make a difference. He's done it. Twice."

Something clicked in Clark's mind.

"I thought you hated Lex because you think he's a bully. You know he's not. You think he's a _loser_."

"Son—"

Clark picked up his backpack and stalked toward the door. "I was the scarecrow, Dad. I'm a loser." He grabbed the door handle and said, "I'm proud to be." He'd wear that _S_ on his chest any day.

With that, he took off for the mansion. The night before had been rough, and Lex could use a friend.


	10. October 18, 2002 (part 2)

It had been a year since Clark had been the scarecrow. It was hard to believe.

Clark didn't recognize the kid who hung from the cross tonight. It was a small town, but that didn't mean he knew every freshman at Smallville High.

All things considered, the kid didn't seem to be in bad shape. His lip was split, his knees and elbows were bruised, and the look of terror on his eyes when Clark and Lex came through the cornfield left no question as to whether he was going to need therapy, but Clark couldn't see any serious injuries. Clark remembered feeling desperate by the time anyone passed by the stake he was tied to; this kid hadn't reached the point of desperation yet. That was a win, if a small one.

"Hang on." Lex hurried around back to untie the ropes, and Clark stood in front to help the kid down from the stake.

"What's your name?"

"M-mark." The boy shivered as Clark lowered him from the stake, helping him to remain standing. "Who are you guys?"

"I'm Clark, and my friend is Lex." Clark glanced around, but Lex had stepped away for a moment.

"Do—do I know you?"

"I don't think so."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Because a year ago, I was wearing the same letter on my chest."

Lex approached them with a bundle of clothing. "Found these." He held them out to Mark.

Mark took the clothes with trembling hands. Clark looked away, and waited for the shuffling sounds to stop. When he looked back, Mark was fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. "Ah, Mark, we've got some soap and a sponge, if you want to wash the paint away first."

Mark shook his head. "It's okay, it's dried. I'll just take a shower later." He continued to work on the buttons, although his hands were shaking so hard he couldn't do much.

Lex put a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you finish that in the car? It's warmer in there."

Mark nodded. Lex supported him from one side and Clark from the other, and they walked back to Lex's car.

Clark grabbed a blanket from the backseat and draped it around Mark's shoulders before letting him into the car. He slid in next to him, while Lex walked around to get in the driver's seat. Lex turned the car on, and the heater started up, but he didn't drive away yet. Instead, he turned back in his seat, glancing at Clark for a moment before turning to Mark. "Did those guys hit you in the head?"

"Uh, no. Not hard, anyway."

"Let me see?" Lex reached out to lift Mark's eyebrow, peering into his eye. "Okay, no concussion." Then he frowned. "Split lip looks bad, though."

Clark picked up the first aid kit and took out an antiseptic wipe. "You want to do it, or should I do it for you?"

"I'll do it." Mark took the wipe from him. "Is it gonna sting?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

Mark shrugged and dabbed at his lip with the wipe, wincing. Clark reached into the ice chest and took out a cold pack.

"Thanks." Mark took the ice and held it to his mouth.

"I've got a few of these. How are your arms?"

Mark lowered the ice for just long enough to talk. "Not bad. I'd only been hanging for a few minutes."

"How about the bruises on your knees and elbows?"

"I think I'm okay."

Clark nodded and closed up the ice chest.

Lex cleared his throat. "Any other injuries? Any reason you should see a doctor?"

Mark shook his head.

"Then we'll get you home. Where do you live?"

"Um, actually, could you take me to the homecoming dance?"

Clark and Lex exchanged a glance. "Really?" Clark asked.

"There's, um . . ." Mark's cheeks turned pink. "There's a girl."

Lex smiled, handed back a thermos of hot chocolate, and drove away.

When they'd dropped off Mark at the school, Clark moved up to the front seat, and Lex headed toward the farm. At a stoplight, Lex glanced over at Clark. "Does your dad know what you were doing tonight?"

"No, I didn't tell him."

"Does he still hate me?"

Clark shifted in his seat. "Maybe he'll give you a chance now. You saved his life from Roger Nixon the other day."

"You really think that's going to make a difference?"

Clark sighed. "No."

"Clark . . . I don't want to come between you and your dad."

"You aren't." Things had been good between Clark and his dad, for the most part. Really good, actually. Any illusions in Clark's mind about Jonathan Kent being perfect had been dispelled, but that was a good thing, a healthy thing. With time and forgiveness, Clark had come to love his father all the more for having seen his weaknesses. Clark tried to set the example his father needed when it came to Lex, and he hoped someday his dad would come around, but it wasn't Clark's job to fix all of his parents' faults; it was his job to do better.

They were quiet for a few more blocks before Lex spoke again. "You sure you don't want me to take care of those guys who hurt Mark? You know I can."

"I know." Clark let his breath out.

"I could teach them a lesson."

"That's not your job. Besides, Whitney turned out alright."

Lex didn't say anything.

They pulled up to the farm house a minute later. Clark reached back to pick up his belongings from the backseat and waved at Lex as he climbed out of the car.

"This was a good night," Lex said.

Clark nodded. "Next year?"

Lex smiled. "I'll hold you to it," he said, and he drove away.

_End_


End file.
